


Facades

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Language, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was sure that he was hallucinating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facades

**Author's Note:**

> A missing scene from HLV. Originally appeared on my Tumblr.

Sherlock was sure that he was hallucinating.

 

He was so certain of it, in fact, that he ignored the shadowy figure in the doorway for several moments, glancing at it and then returning to the book he was attempting to read. But then the figure spoke, and Sherlock started violently.

 

“You’ve done a number on yourself this time, haven’t you?” Victor Trevor said, giving him an easy smile as he stepped into the room. “Sorry, Will - didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me,” Sherlock said. “Thought you weren’t real.”

 

“Ah, yes, the joys of morphine.” Victor crossed the room over to the bed, and he bent at the waist to press his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. When he drew away, Sherlock took a fistful of his shirt and dragged him close again, this time for a proper kiss.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock growled at him when they broke for air. He kept hold of Victor’s shirt, as though frightened if he let go that Victor would disappear again. Seeing as Victor _did_ have a habit of leaving without warning - the joys of being involved with someone who worked for the government - he felt that this was not necessarily an unfounded fear.

 

“You’ve been shot. What makes you think I’d be anywhere else but here right now?”

 

Victor gently removed Sherlock’s hand from his shirt and kissed his knuckles, his green eyes alight with happiness. Sherlock spent a moment entranced by the sight of his lover, as they hadn’t laid eyes on one another in almost eight months - not since the eve of Sherlock’s return to England, right after he had been snatched from captivity in Serbia. Victor had been letting his hair grow out in the months since, and his golden curls were now long enough that Sherlock could wind a finger around them and tug (which he planned to make great use of as soon as he was out of hospital). His skin had been darkened by a tropical sun, and his tailored suit was somewhat loose on his frame, the result of an unexpected and abrupt weight loss.

 

“Stomach bug,” Victor said, before Sherlock could comment on it. “Laid me out for almost a week. I’ve only just started eating food and not wanting to die afterward. Stop looking so worried, Will.”

 

“I always worry about you,” Sherlock muttered. “You lead a dangerous life.”

 

“Says the man lying in a hospital bed with a bullet wound in his chest,” Victor pointed out.

 

Sherlock grimaced at the reminder. He could use some more morphine, but that would make him even groggier than he was right now, and he didn’t want to have a less than clear memory of Victor’s visit. Victor caught the flash of pain that crossed his features, though.

 

“Bit different, being shot, isn’t it?” Victor said sympathetically. “Hurts a hell of a lot more than you expect, what with the wound being so tiny and all.”

 

“It’s a new experience,” Sherlock grunted. He breathed for a moment, waiting for the sharp stab of pain to fade, and then added, “Don’t know how you managed it four times.”

 

“Five,” Victor corrected, and Sherlock stared at him.

 

“Christ, Victor, _again?_ Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I _am_ telling you.” Victor finally sat down in the hard plastic chair next to the bed. “It wasn’t a big deal. Bullet grazed my arm, that’s all. Ruined the tattoo, though. I’ll have to have it redone.”

 

“Shame. I always did like that one,” Sherlock muttered, remembering vividly the silhouette of a wolf that was tattooed on his lover’s left bicep.

 

“I know,” Victor said, giving a downright predatory smile that sent Sherlock’s heart racing. It softened, and then he said, “Go to sleep. We’ll talk more later.”

 

Sherlock meant to protest, truly he did, but then he made the mistake of closing his eyes. Exhaustion pulled him under swiftly after that.

 

He slept for close to six hours and woke feeling disoriented and heavy. It took him some moments to regain his bearings, and Victor had to help him drink from a glass of water, his hands were trembling so badly.

 

“It will pass,” Victor assured him gently. “You suffered a traumatic injury. It’s going to take a while to regain your equilibrium.”

 

“Next time, I’ll ask her to use a knife,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Messier, but less painful.”

 

Victor lifted an eyebrow at him. “Her? You know who shot you?”

 

“Hm? Oh, yes. It was John’s wife.”

 

Victor’s eyes widened fractionally. It was difficult to catch him off-guard, but this apparently was enough. “Your best friend’s wife shot you? What the hell did you do?”

 

“I like how you immediately assume it was my fault,” Sherlock groused. “Though, to be fair, I _did_ interrupt her in the middle of an attempted murder and she was only trying to protect herself, so… yes, I suppose it was my fault.”

 

Victor shook his head. “You’re unbelievable sometimes. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

“I’ve got all day.”

 

That gave Sherlock pause, and he looked at Victor - _really_ looked at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

 

“How long?” he whispered, hardly daring to hope. Victor’s soft smile turned sad, and Sherlock’s heart dropped.

 

“Twenty-four hours,” he said regretfully. “Then I’ve got to go back. But I’ll be back in November, like I promised.”

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh and started at the beginning - or relatively close to the beginning, at least. He did have to circle back a couple of times to the main thread of the story, as his mind kept wandering off on semi-related tangents (he blamed the morphine) but eventually he had filled Victor in on everything he had missed since his last visit.

 

“Show me pictures,” Victor requested, and Sherlock pulled out his mobile, where he had stored a handful of photographs from the wedding. “Christ, Will, I’d have flown home for this if I could. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

 

Sherlock blinked at him, feeling a flush creep across his cheekbones. “It was mostly dull.”

 

“Apart from the attempted murder and the fact that I would have got to see you in a morning coat,” Victor said, smirking as he continued to flip through the pictures.

 

Sherlock snorted. “If you ever want to see me dressed up in a gimmick like that again, you’re going to have to marry me.”

 

Victor’s eyes flicked to him, and he gave a slow smile. “I might just do that.”

 

He returned his attention to the mobile while Sherlock struggled for words, and a sudden frown cut through his features. “Hang on - what did you say John’s wife’s name was?”

 

“Mary Morstan,” Sherlock said. He was suddenly alert, because he knew that expression on Victor’s face. “What is it?”

 

“I know her,” Victor said. “I’ve seen her before, I’m _sure_ of it. But that wasn’t her name. You said Magnussen had information on her?”

  
Sherlock nodded.

 

“Interesting. Well, I’m sure he’s not the only one privy to such information. Can I borrow this?”

 

Sherlock nodded, and Victor stepped away to make a phone call. He stood in the corner of the room, speaking in low tones in a language Sherlock wasn’t familiar with. He guessed it was Farsi, given Victor’s line of work. Several times, he consulted Sherlock’s mobile, no doubt describing to the voice on the other end of the line what Mary looked like.

 

“She’s CIA,” Victor said, snapping his phone closed and returning to his seat by Sherlock’s bed. He handed over Sherlock’s mobile. “We worked on an operation in Paris about ten years back. Knew I recognised her.”

 

“Trust you to remember the face of a woman you only met once,” Sherlock grumbled. Victor snorted.

 

“What can I say - I always remember the beautiful ones,” he said with a wink. And then he turned serious again. “I can get her file for you, and her real name.”

 

Sherlock considered this for a moment, and then shook his head. “No. That’s not necessary. I’ll obtain those on my own if I need to. What about her alias?”

 

“She took it from a child who died in 1972. Mary Morstan was stillborn, and didn’t exist again until about five years ago.” Victor leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs and regarding Sherlock carefully. “Is she a threat?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re certain?”

 

Sherlock glared at him. “I can take care of myself, Victor. There’s no need to put a hit out on my best friend’s wife.”

 

“Sorry, love. That’s what happens when you have a contract assassin for a boyfriend.” Victor leaned forward to give Sherlock a kiss. “I _do_ worry about you, you know.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly, remembering the hell Victor had brought down on the Serbian terrorist cell that had captured and tortured him at the very end of his mission to bring down Moriarty’s network. Mycroft had never heard the end of it, either, and Victor now refused to accept jobs from him anymore. Sherlock felt warm at the realisation that it was all for him. “You needn’t worry, though. She’s not a threat. If anything, _she’s_ the one who needs protection. She’s simply trying to start a new life.”

 

He smoothed a hand down Victor’s lapels and added, “She rather reminds me of you, actually. She’s the person you might have become if you’d left that life behind.”

 

Victor grimaced. “I’d have ended up with a baby and working a normal office job? God, that’s too horrible to contemplate.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “That’s probably why I love you.”

 

“Probably,” Victor agreed with a smile. His hand drifted to Sherlock’s, and he laced their fingers together. “Maybe one of these days you should come back with me.”

 

“Maybe one of these days I will,” Sherlock said quietly. A plan was formulating in his mind, and he mulled it over for a while before venturing, “Before you go… I could use your assistance.”

 

“You want to break out of this place, don’t you?” Victor asked. He heaved a sigh. “Damn it, Will.”

 

“I know. But it’s important. I’ve jeopardized Mary, and now I need to help her.” Sherlock shifted again, and grimaced at the pain. Maybe it wouldn’t do to be _too_ hasty. There was still time. “Greg and John will be visiting around eight. I can wait until then.”

 

“And I suppose I can live with that,” Victor said. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and peeled it off, and then stepped out of his shoes. “Budge up, you.”

 

It helped that Victor had lost weight, no matter how unpleasant the circumstances. Sherlock very carefully shifted over to the other side of the small bed, and Victor was able to squeeze in next to him. He gathered Sherlock close, mindful of the drip and the monitoring equipment that was hooked up to his body. Their noses brushed as they faced one another, and Sherlock stole a chaste kiss.

 

“Tell me about India,” he said softly.

 

Victor gave him a sad smile. “I wasn’t in India.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Tell me about it anyway. Or about Paris or Argentina. Pretend for a moment you can tell me about what it is you do, and I’ll listen.”

 

 _Pretend that you aren’t about to leave me again_ is what he wanted to say, but Victor wouldn’t have appreciated the words and Sherlock was too tired for another round of the row they had had multiple times over the years. He had Victor here. For a few hours, Victor wasn’t a voice on the phone but a real person who could hold him, and Sherlock was going to hang on to that for as long as he could. They would deal with the rest later.

 

Sherlock rested his head on Victor’s chest as the other man began to speak, and he fell asleep to the sound of Victor’s voice.

 


End file.
